


A Simple Touch with Fatal Attraction

by A_N_Whitmore



Series: A Simple Touch with Fatal Attraction [1]
Category: Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_N_Whitmore/pseuds/A_N_Whitmore
Summary: A continuation of the Hannibal Lecter Movie Series, that jumps into the dark realms of control and desire.





	1. A Blade in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I had previously published this work on the Hannibal Studiolo, but it seems that the site has been disbanded and my work has been deleted. I did have about 16 chapters of the work written with a further 10 set up, but the hard drive I had the work on died. So needless to say it will be a rebuild out of my memory palace.
> 
> Certain details will differ from the movies as I see fit for the story to move.
> 
> As for the BDSM, this is NOT a 50 Shades of Grey Bullshit BDSM. 
> 
> This is a consenting and loving submissive relationship on both sides. This is not a forced relationship and will follow all conventions and rules of the BDSM community to the best of my own knowledge and research. If I do something incorrect in a chapter of my fiction, please feel free to message me privately on here and educate me further with respect. 
> 
> I am not here for a kinky fan service, and I don't take flames. Flame me and you get put on my block list. Also, Anon commenting is disabled.

A Simple Touch with Fatal Attraction

Chapter 1: A blade in the dark

_My dear Clarice_  
It has been far too long since I last wrote you, how have you been?  
Have your lambs started to cry out again in terror?  
Have you been dreaming my little Starling?  
I know you’ve been crying. Tell me are your tears as bitter in feeling as they are in taste?  
Are you perhaps crying because you lack something in your life?  
You don’t have a balance, an order shall we say, in which to center your life around.  
I read the paper last week, it seems that you’ve retired with full commendation.  
Tell me, does that make your daddy proud of you my dearest?  
Will you still attempt to fight what you know to be true?  
When you figure out what I mean, you’ll understand.  
I’ll be waiting for you my little star.

__

__

Ta Ta

_Hannibal Lecter M.D_

 

Clarice read the letter over once more and folded it cleanly, placing it back in it’s  
non-descript parchment envelope and put it in her nightstand drawer, locking it behind her. Her heart was pounding, not out of fear but wonderment. What could he mean? Was it her imagination that he was stating once more his undeniable attraction towards her, or was it her mind flattering her? He was back in the states again, nearby that much was clear. That morning when she came home from her daily jog she found the letter and a red rose atop it with its thorns still attached. She had pricked herself on those thorns and watched as the blood welled from the small wound.

Then on instinct she placed the bloodied finger into her mouth to soothe the pain. She felt as if she were being watched and opened her door slowly, slipping quickly inside and slammed it shut.  
Her mother had always told her to watch the thorns when picking roses, but somehow she always managed to prick herself.  
No matter what there would always be blood, and her mother’s tongue to soothe the pain away, to stop the blood from flowing. Her mother was no longer there to soothe the pain. There was no one to stop the emptiness she felt inside. She no longer had the comfort of a simple touch.

 

She never dated anyone since that fateful case except Pilch she tried with him, but how could she with what she had been put through? The only man that she had been able to trust in an albeit twisted way was Hannibal Lecter. She reflected back to Memphis where he was held in solitary confinement, how she had been almost dragged out of the large room that held his cell and how she had fought to get out of their grasp, calling out his name and rushed back to his imprisonment; he had handed her Jame Gumb’s case file and brushed her finger with his. That simple touch sealed her to him, that fatal attraction that claimed her marked by him alone.

 

She looked at her surroundings and picked up the coke can that was from the night before, which was still half full. Never one to waste coca cola, she knocked it back and grimaced at the stale, flat taste. This was pitiful; Clarice M. Starling Special Agent of the FBI was reduced to this, retired with stale coke and nothing left to peak her interest except for a cannibalistic serial killer whom she happened to have a sick attraction to.

 

The empty Coke can still resided in her hand, it attested to her as only emptiness could. Throwing the can away in the wastebasket, she walked over to her stereo and turned it on. It was suddenly loud with the sound of classical music. Odd considering that in the morning she had it tuned to the eighties rock station. He had been here again, in her bedroom this time, her heart began to pound as she sat down once more to the bed, suddenly smelling the all too familiar smell of fleece, Sandalwood, and goat’s milk soap.

Lying down on the comforting covers, she inhaled the smell of him, and was startled by the ringing of the cordless on its rest. She picked up the phone, held it to her ear, and was greeted by the sounds of rather distasteful music, then the sound of Ardelia Mapp as she laughed at some undisclosed comment heard in the background.

“Hey Starling, girl listen I’m not gonna make it home tonight ‘kay? Listen we’ll do something tomorrow for that birthday of yours, maybe I’ll get you a man for once.” Ardelia laughed and continued, “Watch out for the weather it’s a bitch out there, and Starling…love ya! Gotta go Babe they’ve got the dance floor calling my name!” she yelled over the din of the crowd.

Then Clarice heard the dial tone and sat there in a bit of a daze until she heard the computerized voice on the other end telling her to hang up and try her call again.

This wasn’t anything new to Starling; she had often been alone for her birthday, in the orphanage at Bozeman the only presents you received were a new pair of shoes, a blanket, and if you were lucky, a battered book from one of the other children. In fact she still had that dog-eared book from her thirteenth birthday, her third year at the orphanage.

It was put away in her closet on the second shelf. Oliver Twist, a most agreeable book.  
There were times when she felt the plight of Oliver, struggling to find out where he belonged in a society that didn’t care for unfed, and unwashed cast off little boys and girls. She may still have been cast off by society, but she was no longer a little orphaned girl. The holidays weren’t for her either; she detested the thought of cheesy Christmas parties amid drunken people who were having affairs with their office personnel while “Rockin’ around the Christmas tree.” was blasting through a busted amp with a bad soundman too high on the levels.

 

The only thing that she enjoyed of the holidays was Christmas Eve, when she sat underneath the tree at midnight, just as she used to when she was a little girl, before the orphanage, before the sheep, before Daddy was shot because of his short-shucked Remington 870 with it’s shell caught in the chamber and the slide that that wouldn’t clip fully. That stupid shot gun and Daddy’s own stupidity that had him shot through the head, and caused momma to wash that bloodied hat in the kitchen while Clarice watched her cry. Clarice always made sure that her guns were well oiled in the chamber, cleaning out any residual powder that may cause the slide to stick, she wouldn’t be unprepared for a damn fool who wanted to get the better of her.

 

They had offered her John’s job as Weapons Instructor at the Academy, privy to some minimal information, and jump-out squads for the rest of her life. She would also have an allotment of whatever time she wanted in Forensics, to help on cases. Pearsall had said that there would be another pistol champion with her teaching and it made her smile with the thought of teaching young eager minds, for a few moments anyway before she felt the rope tighten around her neck figuratively speaking. This was just something to get her out of the way; she turned it down, turning in her badge the next day.

 

They had said that she was making a mistake, and perhaps they were right but she didn’t want to think of the next few months. Right now all that concerned her was finding a low cost apartment downtown, she had her degree in psychology and found work with troubled youth during the day, spending the evenings at the public shooting range; taking out all of her aggression on targets. It was hard at the moment but she would learn to live with it. Everything could be rewarding in its own way, she just had to find the silver lining.

Three days ago before tonight, she sat in her lonely bedroom with no dates, no family and not even a friend to spend the time with. Life sure as Hell sucked around this time of year. It was hard to believe that in 1967 the Starlings had welcomed a bright-eyed little redhead into the world, a little girl that at a young age had shown so much promise to those around her. She would be damned if they saw her, gritty from gunpowder and sweat, wearing a pair of trashy workout clothes and ragged slippers, with a hole in the sole of the right one.

 

She wondered what her mother would say to her, and laughed as she recalled a day of wrestling with the neighborhood boys, something her mother had forbidden her to do. She came home that day with a bloody lip, a swollen left eye, and clothes, hair and face covered in dirt. She remembered her mother with the plastic spatula in hand, making dinner at the range and an apron that said, “Country cookin’ makes ya’ll good lookin’”.

She remembered her momma taking off that apron and cleaning that spatula, then chasing her into the house giving her a sharp smack on the behind as she ran up the stairs.  
She didn’t want to recall these memories, she didn’t want to see momma’s face again. Still she wondered why they had left her to the ranch, why they never came for her in Bozeman; she even wondered what they were doing at that moment. She had tracked down her mother and sister and even her brothers some years ago living in the same area as they did back then. Things hadn’t changed and neither did the memories. She shuddered as tears threatened to spill over.

 

_"Clarice Marie Starling you’d best get that butt of yours in the tub and start washin’ before your Daddy gets home and sees you lookin’ like you’ve been out with the Thompson boys again!”_

She heard her mother yell from the bottom of the stairway.

_“Yes momma!”she yelled back as she stripped off those dirty clothes and winced at the pain of bloodied knees and skinned palms, then ran into the bathroom and turned on the water, waiting till it was just right, then got into the warmth and sank down with a small yelp as the water came into contact with her bruised body. She heard the door open and her mother came in, kneeling down at that old-fashioned porcelain tub with its lion feet._

_“What are we gonna do with you baby girl? You can’t go around and fight like your brothers, you’re a lady, and ladies don’t come home with shiners on their eyes or bloodied lips and such. Now hurry up and wash, I’ll help you with your hair but do it fast Mikey has Sarah but she’s been rather fussy, and Chris is over Aunt Mattie’s for the night.”_

 

_“How come I’m the one who has to get into trouble when Chris is worse momma?” Clarice asked pouting as her mother handed her the soapy washcloth._

_"Because Clarice, you’re my first baby and you’re Daddy’s pride and joy, we don’t want anything to happen to you. Now wash up.”_

_Clarice did as she was told and leaned back into the tub for her mother to do her hair. “Chris always seems to get away with stuff momma, why?” she asked as her mother rinsed through her red locks._

_"Because Chris and Mikey are handled by your Daddy, because sometimes boys need to have a strong hand to get them to understand things.” her mother said pulling the plug from the tub._

_“You have a strong hand momma, and I think Daddy lets them get away with stuff.”_

 

_“Between you and me baby girl, I see it all,” her mother whispered as she dried her off._

_Clarice laughed and began to hum a jingle that she had seen on TV for Coca cola, and then came a dreaded cough._

_“Seems like you’re comin’ down with somethin’ baby.” her mother said as she dressed._

_“Momma not the cough syrup again! Yuck!” little Clarice said stomping her foot down. At seven years old she often seemed to be older, but there were those times when she still acted her own age. Medicine time was often when her obstinate nature would come out._

_“That’s what you get for rolling around on the ground.” her mother said playfully as she ushered her daughter down the stairs and pulled the brown glass syrup bottle from the cabinet._

 

Starling snapped out of the memory and grimaced, this time at the phantom taste of Fleet’s cough syrup. She would never forget that taste for as long as she lived. She thought sadly of her brothers and her sister, it wasn’t her fault that she had been placed in an orphanage because her mother didn’t want her.

She stated that plainly when her brother Chris had called to tell her that her mother wished her a merry Christmas and to have a good birthday. She cried into the phone a week ago.

“Where was momma when I was in Bozeman? Where was she on the day that I graduated from UVA and on the day that I became a Special Agent? Where was she on all the days that I had been in the hospital with bullets being pulled out of me?”

“Why wasn’t she frantic when I was taken by a serial killer and forced to watch as a man was fed his own brain? Where was she Chris? Ya’ll never gave a damn about me then, I never got a call or anything for twenty three years and now you think that you can just throw those empty years away and act as though everything is back to normal? Hell no! Take your wishes and give them to someone you really care about!”

 

“Clarice wait!” Chris yelled. “No Chris tell Momma and everybody to have a good Christmas, but leave me alone please.” she said and hung up the phone.

 

The rest of that night was spent with Jack Daniel’s and a tear stained frame holding the picture of her and her father. Unknown to her, Hannibal Lecter sat outside her door that night; once again the ever-elusive Agent Mapp was out for another all-nighter shift at the good old FBI headquarters. When she fell asleep with that photograph to her chest and the tumbler about to slip from her grasp, he came to her side and caught it with ease, setting it calmly on the glass table, took the photograph from her and placed it next to the glass quietly so as not to disturb her. Then he sat down in the armchair next to the couch and proceeded to watch her for several hours, until he spied the first rays of dawn approaching and left her with a comforter covering her chilled body.

 

She looked just like the drawing that he had done of her in the guise of a child, he had seen it hung in the private collection of the University of Chicago, and it pleased him as he heard the random comments from art students around him appreciating the raw beauty and emotion that he brought forth with charcoal on base paper. Now when he retreated back to his car, he pulled out his sketchpad and rendered her likeness once more, this time on fine acid-free 70 lb paper with a 6HB charcoal pencil. When he was finished, he watched as she came out tear-stained and sleep rumpled, looking at her surroundings as she did each morning before she grabbed the newspaper. She wiped at her eyes and started back inside the house, but not before looking around once more. Unusual for her, had she perhaps caught on to his location? No it was merely a glance at the neighbor’s cat, which had a nasty habit of escaping.

Sure enough he watched her as she picked up the cat and carted it back to its owner’s home, wearing her ragged slippers and workout clothes. The cat meowed as she rang the bell and the old woman answered, thanking Starling then slamming the door rudely in her face. Starling then retreated back to her lonely home and closed herself inside. Hannibal mused for a moment as he started the car, ever the animal lover his Clarice was, he should do something about that. She seemed to have an affinity for cats, more so then dogs he noticed; for she would always quicken her pace when she heard dogs barking. Perhaps due to the night she ran from the ranch in Montana. Wild dogs were prevalent in that area, and with a lamb in her arms Clarice would have been a certainly tasty catch for them. Hannibal being the man he was wouldn’t have it bode well if a dog ever tasted her blood before he did.

 

Perhaps she would enjoy having a little companion to tell her problems to. Yes this was a good idea in the mind of Hannibal Lecter, his Clarice would have a pet for Christmas, and hopefully the admonition of her heart’s desire would also be told that night. He shook his head, now was not the time to think of such things, he must search for gifts, starting with a fine birthday wine. He put the car in drive and went down Tindal Ave easily with a smile on his lips. Arlington was a beautiful place to be in winter, yes indeed it was. He decided it was time to put his latest identity to good use.

Coming back to the present. a bath sounded lovely at the moment, and Starling decided to act upon that desire. She didn’t know whether she would sleep that night, and part of her didn’t want to; it didn’t seem right to sleep when she had so much on her mind. She left the comforting depths of her bed and began to peel away the grimy sweat ridden exercise clothes from her body, and each layer fell to the floor of her room as she threw them off while walking to the bathroom. She felt again as though she was being watched, but that was absurd, she would have been notified by the annoying alarm Ardelia had insisted she installed. The more logical part of her mind knew better, Lecter disabled it before stupid; he could do it now. “He would never hurt me.” She said aloud to herself as if to reassure her ever-present sense of impending danger that there was nothing amiss.

 

She continued to the bath and ran the water as hot as she could and poured in some of the lavender and gunpowder scented bath oil that Dr. Lecter sent to her around three months ago; it was the only scent that was able to get her to calm down. She looked at the clock on the wall as she lowered herself into the water and sighed, it was 2:30 in the morning, another two and a half hours and she would be thirty-four years old.

Her whole body ached from stress and it didn’t help matters that she had to restrain a child the previous day, to prevent him from doing serious harm to himself. She relaxed and let the pain ease slowly out of her joints, as she lathered a bath sponge with hand made lemon soap that she had found in an all-natural beauty store at the local mall. She washed slowly and then did her hair with a ginger shampoo that was also hand made. Ardelia had said that she was spoiling herself one day as she paid for a massage at the spa and she responded that it was good to spoil yourself sometimes. Taste was the soft spot for her; it was where Hannibal Lecter first caught her, with her “Nice bag and her cheap shoes, looking like a well scrubbed hustling rube.” Her taste was dramatically altered when he came into her life, gone were the Payless shoes and the small faux pearl earrings, and in their place rested silver hoops and expensive dress flats. She wasn’t one to kill herself on heels, she wore pumps occasionally but usually regretted it by the end of the day.

 

Speaking of aching feet, God they were killing her! She pulled her sore feet from the water and inspected them; sure enough there was a blister from her old sneakers on both instep and heel of each foot. What was that remedy Mapp had taught her when they were in Quantico? Ahh there, it came to her, baking soda and green tea powder mixed in hot water. She had some downstairs in the cupboard next to the fridge. She stepped out of the bath and wrapped herself into a soft terrycloth towel, then padded down to her room after she pulled the plug on the bath. She dried and pulled on a warm flannel shirt, then brushed her hair and went down stairs.

The snow was heavy outside and the wind made that crying sound as the duplex creaked and moaned under the onslaught. The lights flickered as she went through the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients for her feet and candles from the shelf above, she knew she had a lighter in the drawer next to the stove incase the pilot light went out; and she retrieved it, she boiled some water in the copper tea kettle and searched for the old porcelain wash basin. It was buried behind some pots and utensils she never used. She pulled it out and carried it into the living room, setting it in front of her chair, then placed the candles and the lighter on the table. Grabbing the kettle and the ingredients she then set about easing the pain in her feet.

 

Just as she sat down in the chair, the lights flickered again and went out, she lit the candles and set her feet in the basin, sighing in relief; then she looked around, and gazed at the dark Christmas tree in the corner of the room, with only a few presents beneath it. It was going to be tight this year, but somehow she would make it. She grabbed the book resting on her side table and started to read on page 92. It was from the Symposium; one of the great dialogues of Plato, and line 10 caught her attention.  
“At least, everyone becomes a poet whom Love touches, even one who before that had no music in his soul.” She wondered if Plato had ever truly loved, if it was possible to have a relationship with someone as deep in thought as he was. She continued to read and yawned as the clock struck the hour of five. Then she heard the door open and the candles sputtered out one by one. Quickly she fingered the .45 on the side table and found the familiar grip, then poised it in front of her and clicked the safety off.

 

“Clarice put the gun down.” She knew that voice all too well, and immediately complied with his request. She heard the light switch on the wall flicked once, then footsteps continuing to the center of the room. “It seems as though you’re without power for the night my dear. She shivered and grabbed the blanket on the back of the chair to cover herself. She heard him sniff the vicinity of the room and realized as he sat down on the couch that she was holding her breath. “ A foot soak, green tea and baking soda; someone needs to take better care of their athletic selection. Oh and by the way…love the skin products.” He laughed lightly and reached for the lighter on the table. Its flame was bright in the darkness of the room and it ricochet off of the maroon pinpoints of his eyes. He lit the candles once more and she saw there on the couch a basket and a bottle of wine as well as some other packages.

 

“Happy Birthday Clarice.” He said and handed her the basket, She heard from within the tinkling of a bell and opened the lid. There inside she saw a small black kitten with a maroon bow and the tinkling silver bell around its neck. “Dr. Lecter…. thank you.” She said as she pulled the kitten from the basket and set it in her lap. The kitten was a male about seven weeks old judging from its relative size, and it had red-ish orange eyes, but that could have been a mistake by candlelight. “He has his papers Clarice as well as his shots, I’ve named him for you but if you’d like you can change it. His name is Dantè, you’ll find his collar in the basket, it has a hook for the bell next to his nametag.” Dr. Lecter said as he handed her a smaller package.

She set it down on the table for a moment and reached into the basket, coming up with the collar, of maroon leather and the gold medallion bearing his name. She took off the bell and hooked it on, then removed the bow and replaced it with the collar. The kitten purred and settled back down in her lap, closing its sleepy eyes. She took the smaller package back into her hands and proceeded to open it, revealing a thin velvet box. It creaked open and she looked at it, not quite wanting to believe that it was for her. A green Aventurine crystal on a silver Figero chain rested on white satin. It was beautiful. There were a few other packages of clothing and some cat necessities, all in his expensive taste, things she never had before except for the Gucci dress. She was shocked at being lavished like this and couldn’t describe how she felt.

 

She heard the familiar pop of the wine cork and relaxed into the chair as she rested her hand into Dantè’s fur. The small kitten purred thickly and meowed as he turned into her stomach and nuzzled. A fast heartbeat, so fast in a body so small, a small miracle in a world that was lost. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Hannibal staring back at her with a wine glass in his hand, the hand on her shoulder that held the scars of his formerly severed thumb and the polydactyl middle finger. “Clarice… each of us plays a different role in life, but the story remains the same, all of this has happened before and all of it will happen again, but the problem is not who or what but rather when. Take a drop of wine, will it fall, hit the ground but then reverse its course?” He asked handing her the glass.

“No…no. Entropy doesn’t work, the universe isn’t going to fold in on itself or reverse itself, but history happening in the same way but with different players is right.” She said as she raised the glass to her lips. “Stephen Hawking’s theorem was flawed, but there are those of us who wish to the Gods that he was right.” He said. “What do you mean?” Clarice asked. “Nothing Clarice. Nothing.” Hannibal said as he turned away from her. “What do you want to change Doctor?” Clarice asked as she set the glass down and stood up with Dantè in her arms. “I want to change everything, except for you… and if you don’t mind I’ve said too much.” He said as headed for the door. “Why because you told the truth?” Clarice asked blocking his way. “Yes, because the truth can make me regret everything.”  
“Why because you fucked up, is that why?” “Yes…because I couldn’t stop them!” He yelled. “What are you talking about?” She asked soothing a now struggling Dantè.  
“I started all of this to get revenge, because rude sadistic bastards ate my sister.” He said. Clarice closed her mouth and moved out of the way. “I need to protect you.” He said kissing her forehead. “I can protect myself Doctor.” She said pulling away from him.

“Happy Birthday Clarice, happy birthday.” He said pressing something solid into her unoccupied hand. She closed her eyes and felt his lips brush hers, then heard the door slam and looked down to find the dreaded Harpy in her grip. She turned back to her empty living room and laid her cheek into Dantè’s fur, she couldn’t believe what Hannibal told her.  
He’d had a sister, she was murdered… no eaten. Strangely she didn’t feel remorse, no she understood the need for revenge, and every person that he killed had deserved it.  
She put Dantè down on her chair and proceeded to clean up the wrapping paper and boxes. The wine glasses she put on the sink after wiping his down. The Harpy felt heavy yet comforting in the pocket of her flannel shirt.

History replaying itself, with different roles but the same outcome; maybe not in the same way, but eventually it would reach the same blind conclusion. Would she be the one to die this time? Not if she could help it. She wasn’t one to sit and play the fucking damsel in distress. She never played the role before and she wasn’t about to start now.  
She would sooner allow someone to take her into the pit of Hell. Perhaps Hell was there to take her already, she was playing a dangerous game by letting him get closer to her. She put her hand to her lips and sighed, the man hadn’t changed and damn he could make a kiss seem like it was the only thing that mattered.

She went back into the living room and blew out the candles after she put her gifts under the tree, Ardelia would question where she had gotten them, but she could lie and say that Pilch had come by for a surprise visit. Though she had politely turned him away when he had tried to make an advance. Yes, that would convince Ardelia logically; because it was the truth that Pilch still carried a torch for her and often dropped by to take her to the movies and such. She accepted his offers as a friend but each time as he went to give her a kiss she offered her cheek; because it was a fact in her heart that she knew Hannibal would never allow another man to kiss her as long as he was in the area. Of course she never knew when he was about or not, he disguised himself from her view very well anymore; so it was better to be safe rather than sorry. Pilch was never mad though, he was one to wait… one night as they were driving home he had asked her what was going on between them; she had said that she didn’t want romantic attachments because of her past with the FBI. It was hard enough having to hide herself from the media hounds; she didn’t want to have him go through the same thing. Pilch nodded and said, “I know, but I still think that you’re a great girl and someday I hope I get to be together with you.” He smiled sheepishly and blushed as he walked her up the steps to her door, then gave her a kiss goodnight.

It felt strange she noted as she climbed the stairs with Dante in her arms, she had accepted Hannibal’s kiss and felt wanted, cared for, dare she even say it… loved. Downstairs when he had kissed her lips again, her heart pulled toward him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything; she hadn’t even been able to respond.  
What was she thinking? It was hard enough to try and get on with her life as it was, why was she inviting danger into the mix? “You know what your problem is Clarice? You need to get more fun out of life.” She heard his voice admonish from the depths.  
She shook her head, and turned into her bedroom, suddenly remembering that she had left the foot soak on the floor in front of her chair. Shrugging she reminded herself to pick up the mess first thing in the morning.  
She set Dantè down on the floor and looked for the newspaper that she had forgotten to pick up two nights ago. Ahh there it was, buried beneath a pile of junk mail on her desk. She pulled it out from under the pile and laid it out on the floor, covering most of the bare hardwood. Then she removed the Harpy from her shirt pocket and put it beneath her pillow, somehow not even a Colt .45 made her feel this safe. There was something about gripping the handle of a knife that made you feel exhilarated, especially if that knife was used by the Hannibal Lecter. Not that she was condoning his actions with the blade, no but she did realize what an awesome responsibility and burden it was to carry such a weapon. If the auctioneers on eBay knew she had this, they would hunt her down for it..

“Enough thinking for one night baby.” She said to herself as she laid down to the smell of his cologne and the exotic Sandalwood. Shutting off the light, she rolled over onto her stomach and felt the bed move as Dantè jumped up and nuzzled against her.  
She pet him and soon fell into a fitful sleep, there were no screaming lambs to be heard.

The next morning she heard a knock at her bedroom door, with a start she almost made a grab for the Harpy but calmed herself with the realization that it was Ardelia waking her as she always did on her birthday. “Starling baby wake up!” she said jovially as she opened the door. Flipping onto her back Clarice sat up and smiled as she was handed a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Ardelia looked around the room, hearing the sound of a cat and looked puzzled as Starling smiled again with conviction written all over her. “Clarice what the hell is that?” “Delia meet Dantè.” She said as the kitten sauntered up onto the bed. “Where did it come from and why is it here?” Mapp asked raising an accusing eyebrow. “I don’t know where he came from, but he was a gift.” She said with honesty. “You don’t think…. Do you?” Ardelia asked looking at the black ball of fluff now curled up on Clarice’s lap. “Seems like him doesn’t it?” She asked.

“And all those other things downstairs?” She questioned nervously. Clarice nodded and went back to reading the paper. “Doesn’t it scare you that he could come in here at any time and watch you ?” Ardelia asked. “It doesn’t bother me Ardelia, he promised me that he would never call on me and I trust him with that… and whatever else he might do doesn’t concern me as long as I don’t wake up with a knife at my throat.” She said. “What if you do girl? What if he tries to kill you?” Ardelia asked.  
“Then maybe it’s meant to be… but I don’t want to think about anything that may not happen.” She said as she got up from the bed.

“You’re scaring me….” Ardelia said. “Ardelia…. I’m getting out of here for a few days, don’t call me.” Clarice said. “Wait girl where are you going?” Ardelia asked as Clarice walked out of the bedroom with Dante in tow. “I’m going back… Delia…I’m going back to the Chesapeake.” Ardelia stopped in her tracks as her friend turned around and faced her. “Why would you go back there Starling?” Ardelia asked with a sick feeling rising in the pit of her stomach. “I need to know how he thinks Delia, I know what he’s like on the outside, I know that he wants me… but… I don’t know why.”

“Why in God’s name would you want to know that?” Ardelia asked. “Delia… you wouldn’t understand.” Clarice said. “Try me girl! Tell me why the fuck are you letting him mess with you?” “Because I see myself in him, I’m just as cruel, sick and twisted as he is.” She sighed “Tell me the truth girl! Do you want him? Is that what this is about?” Ardelia yelled. “Part of me does! And it scares me! So just let me go… I swear I’ll be out of here after Christmas.” She said as she found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in the laundry basket outside her door.

“Why do you want him girl? What did he do to you?” Ardelia asked as tears poured down her face. “You want to know what he did Delia? He understood me, he got in here.” She whispered pointing to her head. “Take me with you then, I want to know why you’ve fallen in love with him…. I want to know why you love a killer!” Ardelia yelled. “I can’t do that Ardelia.” Clarice whispered. “Why not? Starling…baby I don’t understand… you’d let a killer love you, but you won’t allow me to make sure that this is what you want? You won’t even let me say goodbye?” “I can’t…. there are some things that I have to face alone.” Starling said as she stood there.

“Then fuck you and your demons!” Mapp yelled as she went to smack Clarice across the face. Starling grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her back into the bedroom, pressing her face down into the bed Clarice grabbed the Harpy from beneath the pillow and flicked it open deftly; “Don’t ever try to hit me again! Y’all think you know what’s best for me? Y’all never gave a damn about me! But even though you never gave a damn about me doesn’t mean I don’t care about you!” She said and cut off a small lock of her hair. Letting go of Ardelia she pressed it into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers over it. Mapp cried even harder then as she felt her friend leave the bed and grab a suitcase. She heard Starling pulling clothing from various drawers and heard the rustle of clothes being packed away, then finally the sound of the suitcase being zipped up and another being brought out. Papers being placed within this time, the rustle of folders closing and photos being removed from the walls. It must have been half an hour before Mapp heard the bedroom door close and the sound of Starling’s feet going down the stairs with three suitcases and a duffle bag behind her.

She sat up and wiped her red-rimmed eyes, then looked at the lock of her best friend’s hair. She heard the familiar roar of the 88 Mustang pealing out and listened until it could be heard no more. When she went down stairs she found boxes from the closet out and labeled with a small note attached saying that she would be back the following morning to pick up the rest of her things and that if Mapp was wise she would vacate the house from 9:30 am until 2:30 that afternoon. Damn Lecter, he must have been close, he must have heard the whole thing and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

Author’s Note: Some people need to face their problems in their own way, but if it is deemed to be folly should we allow them to carry on?

Find out in the next chapter of A Simple Touch with Fatal Attraction


	2. Human Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first instinct of human nature is to seek shelter and its own kind, the second instinct of human nature is to run at the first sign of danger, so why does Clarice want to run and yet flee from Hannibal at the same time? Her human nature is a convoluted conundrum of duty and loyalty. What happens when she starts to break down from the

Clarice drove down the twisting highways, her mind numb, concentrating on her destination of the house on the Chesapeake. She turned up the volume on her stereo and wiped the tears from her eyes as she slowed and turned off onto the main road of the small town. She knew she was right for getting out of there, but she couldn’t believe Ardelia. She couldn’t let her in; she needed to keep going… there was no turning back. She prayed that he would be there, Dantè slept in the passenger seat and her luggage was stowed in the back. She had never felt pain like this before, the pain of what felt to be betrayal. If she could have turned back, she didn’t know if she would.

Hannibal Lecter, for the monster people described him, was the only person who had seen her for who she truly was. True he had often spoke down at her, but this was to make her see the mistakes she had made. On the other times, he had been kind and gentle, reproving her somewhat forcefully though when she needed it. A flash of her memory recalled being slammed against the refrigerator and her body feeling exhilarated even though she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. She turned into the wooded lane that led up to the house and sighed in relief as she relaxed.

However when the house came into view, there in the drive sat a red ford pickup. She continued up the path and parked in front of the walk to the entrance.  
Getting out of the mustang, she fingered her .45 but thought better of it and left it in its place on her holster, instead reaching for the Harpy which rested in her jeans. Walking up quickly to the entrance, she found the door unlocked and slipped inside. Nothing seemed to be amiss in the house; there still sat that dreadful statuette of Leda and the swan all over and the harpsichord and thermine were open to view. Still she saw no sign of who owned the pickup.

She was about to turn into the kitchen when she suddenly felt a hand at the small of her back; she turned around swiftly and found herself pushed roughly against the wall. 

“Good evening Clarice, running again?” she heard that metallic voice say as she closed her eyes. 

“Dr. Lecter.” she whispered as she felt his hand remove the Harpy from her grip without letting her go. “You cut off some of your hair… evidence ex-Special Agent Starling? Evidence perhaps to make them think I kidnapped you? Tell me; thrill me with the knowledge that federal agents are on their way here to capture me! Do you think they will take you back? Tell me!” 

“No! I didn’t call anyone!” she yelled.

“Then why cut off your hair with a blade?” he asked. 

“Ardelia tried to hit me, I took her into the bedroom and held her down to the bed, in the process I cut off a bit of my hair and put it into her hand, it was something for her to know that I gave a damn about what we were.” she said trying to pull out of his grasp. He held her there, tighter, and leaned in close. 

“And what were you to each other Clarice?” 

“We were best friends Doctor, we had twelve years of friendship that I threw away to find you.” 

“I threw away everything for you,” she said as a tear fell. She closed her eyes again and suddenly felt his mouth on her cheek, drinking her tears.

Her heart pounded as she felt that mouth move closer to hers, demanding as God himself, accepting nothing but total obedience. He pulled away slightly, just a breath away, “And would you eat my burning heart obediently, because I offer it freely Clarice? Every time I am near you I run the risk of being caught. I am like a moth to the flame; I sacrifice myself for you. If you should deny me again, I swear to you, that you will not go a day without wishing that I were near you. Because no one will ever treat you the way I will Clarice,” he said breathing hard as he tried to push down the fear of losing her again.

“And how is that Doctor? By making me sit there and watch as you feed your victims their own body parts for your pleasure? Or is it perhaps that you would make me feel inferior by commenting on my daddy for the stupid idiot that he was that night, or maybe my momma who was a chambermaid, who finally remembered the daughter she threw away and couldn’t even pick up the telephone after twenty three years to even attempt an apology? Is that how Doctor? Do thrill me with your acumen.” she said acidly.

 

“No Clarice! I would treat you as you should have been treated! You have never known your true potential, and as for what I did that night with dear Mr. Krendler, you have to admit in all honesty was for the best. I showed you what I was, I gave you the knowledge that though I am a killer, I put you above myself that night, or don’t you remember?  
“How can I forget Doctor? It stays with me every day.” She said trying to fight away the sickness she felt as her stomach lurched queasily into her throat.

“Do calm down Clarice…you look positively green.” He said letting her go and backing away. 

“Perhaps you had too much to drink lately, you know cirrhosis of the liver does bring bouts of nausea quite often. 

“Thank you for that lovely assessment Doctor Lecter, now can I please have a drink of water?” she asked. 

“Of course you can Clarice, but the correct way to ask for a drink is “May I please have a drink of water?”; but I won’t hold it to you today.” He laughed lightly though somewhat bitterly and walked into the kitchen, Clarice followed behind him and took in the surroundings; not much had changed in the past year except for new wallpaper and a replacement fridge.

“It brings back memories doesn’t it Clarice?” He asked as he opened the fridge door. 

When she didn’t answer he looked at her and grinned at her, in an almost maniacally teasing way.  
He took out the water pitcher and brought a glass over to her and one for himself. 

“Would you like lemon Clarice?” She shook her head and peered down at the butcher island.  
It was almost ironic, here they were in the same place, the place where he had cut open Paul’s head, the place where he had cut off his own thumb; but there was no residual blood in the wood grain. No…of course there wouldn’t be, this had to have been replaced. She shook her head and sighed, taking the now full glass of water and putting it to her lips.

“Is something the matter Clarice?” he asked watching her drink. She put down the glass and gazed at him, trying to understand what was going on inside his mind. 

“Are you trying to read me ex-Special Agent Starling? It won’t do no…no…it simply will not do.” He watched as her eyes looked away from him, not in fear but in embarrassment.  
“Clarice…look at me.” He said and lifted her chin. “Why…?” She asked. 

“Why what Clarice?” 

She pulled away from him and ran out the back door, the water glass now smashed on the floor as cold winter wind and snow ripped through the warm house.

“CLARICE!” He yelled grabbing his coat and keys from the rack and following after her. “Damn her! She’ll catch her death out here!” he said to himself as he followed her footprints.

Clarice meanwhile found herself in a precarious situation, despite not being far from the house, she was freezing without a coat, and violently throwing up in the snow. It had been too overwhelming back there, she kept seeing Krendler dead, kept feeling Dr. Lecter’s lips on hers, and seeing the blood…. So much blood. His hands, those hands that killed… why? She couldn’t think straight anymore. She felt tired; she wanted to close her eyes… screw survival training.

“I miss you Daddy…” she said finally closing her eyes and passing out. 

Hannibal had just come through the brush, thickly covered in snow and saw her passed out on the ground. It had been almost fifteen minutes, enough time to catch a moderate case of hypothermia, but also under stress the way she was, it was worse. She was breathing shallow and her pulse was slow.

He picked her up into his arms and carried her back to the house. He kicked the back door closed, and took her into the drawing room, unbuckling the gun holster, quickly cutting through her soaked clothing with the Harpy and getting it away from her. He threw off his boots and started the gas on the fireplace, praying that the wood he placed in there earlier was dry enough to catch aflame.

The wood caught soon and he smiled as he took an afghan from the back of the couch and put it over her naked form to preserve her modesty. Feeling the effects of the cold himself, he checked her pulse again and deemed it safe enough to let her be while he grabbed her things from the car and changed into something warmer.

Going up to his room, he peeled off the soaked clothing and pulled on a new undershirt and a black fleece sweater, along with new underwear and black khakis. Ahh that feels much better, now to attend to Clarice’s belongings. He thought as he put on his socks and spare boots.  
Putting on another coat, he walked back down the stairs and into the drawing room to look for her keys. He brought the ruined jeans up and looked through the contents of the gun holster which he had unbuckled, finding six full clips a pair of Hand cuffs no doubt stolen from the FBI evidence locker, and a can of mace, but alas no keys.

Still he went through the contents of her jean pockets and found them. He walked over to her unguarded form and found her breathing steady but her pulse and temperature were still low. 

“I’ll be right back my little Starling.” He said brushing her snarled hair from her face, she shivered and he pulled the blanket closer around her. If she didn’t warm up soon, a bath would need to be in order.

He went out the front door to her car and opened the passenger’s side first, taking Dantè in his carrier to the warmth of the house, then he returned and took out her belongings, the suitcases were in poor condition and looked haphazardly put together, the duffle bag was no doubt from the sound filled with tapes and photographs. He put the suitcases down and locked her doors, then picked up the meager testaments to his love’s lonely life and retreated back into the house.

Luckily, he was wise and kept the self cleaning litter boxes and cat litter upstairs in the bathrooms. He took the poor cat from his carrier and walked upstairs once more, this time to the main bath and took an eyedropper from the medicine cabinet and filled it with water, placed Dantè in the litter box and squeezed the eyedropper to the cat’s nether regions, which induced the cat to relieve himself.

Hannibal took Dantè from the litter box and cleaned his toes of the litter, then washed his own hands of any dirt or grime. With Dantè in his arms, Hannibal returned down the stairs and pulled off his boots outside the entrance to the drawing room, then sat in his chair and watched Clarice sleep while Dantè rested comfortably on his lap. He felt quite at peace this moment, she was where she belonged, though she would continue to run. That after all was her human nature.

 

Author’s Note: Láo Tzu a famous Chinese philosopher once said-  
“A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.”  
But how do you begin that journey when you are too afraid of what is  
in your past?


	3. Chasing Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now is the time when barriers begin to fall, where instinct gives way to desire. Looking back on the past is painful but also therapeutic.
> 
> Warning: Does have mention of past molestation and rape. Does have Hannibal losing control and acting with base instincts that are very uncharacteristic of his otherwise collected self.

She smelled something sweet and heady with warmth, yet she felt chilled to the bone. Hands, strong hands lifting her, cradling gently against the smell of fleece. She wanted to stay there all day. Suddenly she felt the shock of water against her, it felt boiling, she tried to struggle, to call out but she felt so tired. Soothing hands caressing her face, calm murmurs of garbled words that she couldn’t make sense of.

The water no longer felt so hot. Those strong hands moved down her body, a feeling of cloth and soap trailing over her breasts; she caught a strain of that garbled mess that was language and slowly made sense out of it… “…I do hope you’ll forgive me…. Something of an awful mess.” 

She tried to open her tired eyes, but they felt so… she couldn’t even think of the word. She felt a hand again lifting her own and she latched onto that hand as a newborn babe would.

She forced herself to open her eyes and stared through the heavy-liddedness, directly into his own. She felt the rawness of her throat, with the faint taste of bile and spoke softly; 

“Dr. Lecter… I’m sorry… I’m sorry I was so stupid.”

“Clarice… everyone, including myself has had rather dense moments in their lives, although I cannot say that running out into knee deep snow at below thirty-two degrees is one of them.” He said into her ear. He went to get up and she gripped his hand harder.

“Don’t leave me… please.” She said. He knelt down again and brushed the wet hair from her cheek with his unoccupied hand.

“Clarice I wouldn’t leave you for anything in the world, but I need to get you dried off” ; with that he gently pried her hand from his and took his terrycloth towel from the rack. Coming back to her, he pulled her from the water and wrapped the towel about her then lifted her from the tub.

He looked down at his young lamb as he carried her to the room that she had occupied on her previous stay, she trembled in his arms and he held her closer. Something was clearly wrong, and it wasn’t a fear towards him. He set her gently down on the bed and walked away slowly to the chair sitting at the foot. She clutched at the towel, tears running down her cheeks. He didn’t dare say anything to her; no… it was best for her to tell him on her own. 

“No one’s ever bathed me since my momma left me… especially not a man…” She said wiping her eyes again and sniffling.   
There… finally an opening for him to slip into, a chink in the ever-present armor.

“What happened Clarice?” He asked leaning forwards in the chair. 

“He was a good man, kind… he didn’t mean it! It was my fault! If I’d just locked the damn door like I should have…” She trailed off sobbing. 

“Clarice… did your cousin’s husband rape you?” He asked barely concealing his anger.

 

“NO! He touched me… Dr. Lecter… his hands… Laurie was gone… put soap in his eyes.” She said hiccupping, “ ‘e knew I loved them… killed the lambs… I ran with Hannah. I saw them… shadows… the dogs… chasing us.” 

She stopped; trembling once again with sobs racking her shoulders. 

“Paul Krendler… God… he watched me in the gym, the showers… always calling me Cornpone country pussy… did I bring it all on me? Was I wrong to want him dead?” She asked looking at him.

 

Hannibal shook his head and looked briefly at the religious icon put on the wall above the bed, no he had not put it there but rather a Lutheran minister and his wife did when they leased it from him over the summer. They of course knew nothing of what had occurred there the previous summer. Due to an ailing heart though the minister had to cancel his vacation and passed away on ironically the fourth of July.

He gave the icon a look over once more and found that this depiction of the savior on the cross was accurate, it must have been hand carved, because mass-produced crucifixes and other religious iconography as always had the palms nailed instead of the wrists. Looking back to Clarice he sighed and stood up, walking cautiously to the bed.

“No Clarice… you didn’t bring anything upon yourself except for thinking that any of that negative attention was brought on by you. Believe me… you didn’t cause any of it all right? When I was held captive… I saw boys and girls, sons and daughters of the servant staff raped and touched daily. Soldiers would degrade them…humiliate them by forcing them to perform fellatio, releasing on their faces, making them clean up any spilled ejaculatory fluid off the dirt floor and though they did not favor me, I was subjected to watch these tortures.“

"I too wanted those people dead, especially for Mischa’s sake and I thank God or whoever may be up there in the heavens each day when I recall the sound of the militant guns with their bayonets attached, thoroughly ridding my family’s land of the German filth who took everything I had.” He was sitting next to her, wiping her tears with his thumb and licking the salty liquid away.

He walked over and sat next to her on the bed, wanting to move out of the role of therapist for once.

“I talked with a girl a few days ago at the center, she said that she wished someone would take care of her father the way you took care of Krendler or even Pazzi, and that she wished you were there for her, like you were for… me; but Doctor part of me wants to hate you!” She weakly pounded at his chest and he pulled her to him, suddenly grabbing her wrists he pinned her to the bed beneath him.

Hannibal felt something within him break. Years of pent up agony and desire washed over him. She was like a lamb to the slaughter and he the wolf that would devour.

“Why do you want to hate me Clarice? Is it because I don’t dominate you the way the FBI did? Tell me Clarice is this what you want?” He asked huskily into her ear as he pressed her deeper into the down mattress. The pain at her wrists screamed deliciously and the air bit at her as he ripped the towel from her body. For the first time in her life she truly craved, hated, and feared this man above her, tears streamed down her face as her body betrayed her yet, part of her, the same part that hated him was aroused by his anger.

 

“I hate to bring up old memories Clarice, but as Miggs would have said, I can smell you. I wonder do you dream of me? Do you visualize scenarios, exchanges, fucking me? I’ve wanted this for a long time Clarice, but…. I can wait, I can wait until you shed that naivety, and it is quite frankly pathetic on you.” 

He leaned down and bit the juncture of her neck and shoulder and watched closely as it bled, the tears on her face and her pain together with the blood was absolutely magnificent and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. He lapped at the blood and felt her shudder beneath him, her scent heady in the air, increasing to an almost unbearable level for him. He knew she could feel his erection beneath his slacks, but he didn’t give her the grace of allowing her primal fear to be alleviated just yet. He would never disgrace a woman of her calibre. He would never harm a hair on her head. Despite her initial fear, her body moved into his.

He wanted to have her remember this, the exact moment that her barriers crumbled down, God knows he would remember everything vividly in the coming hours and for all the years left to him. He licked the tears and pressed his bloodstained mouth to hers in a searing kiss, forcing her lips open and caressed her tongue with his. He grew elated in his passion as he felt her return the kiss, although weakly. 

“No one will ever treat you the way I will Clarice.” He said roughly after he shoved her away from him and stood up, walking away before he damaged her fragile state even more.

He was wrong, he knew he was wrong. Now she would surely leave.

Before he left the room he looked back at her flushed shuddering form and felt her eyes burn into him, he looked at her heaving breasts to the blood on her shoulder as it trailed down to her pale brown areola, and its remnants left on her lips. She reminded him of a painting that he had seen once, but in that painting “The ravishment of Persephone”   
Persephone had clutched at torn and bloody bed sheets and hid her face. Clarice was defying Hades, this was why Hannibal loved her, this was why he longed to take her; but not yet… no not yet. She had to fight her demons yet, her own darkness and he would be there watching as she chased her shadows deeper into hell.

"Forgive me Clarice... I took advantage of you. I've harmed you... I understand if you want me to leave."

He started to walk away, when she called out weakly.

"Help me, I can't do it on my own anymore."

He turned back to face her, "Help you do what Clarice?"

"Help me to let go, to talk about it, to just give in. Something worked in me... just now."

"It's called submission, but that was rather a painful and inappropriate way to introduce you. Forgive me. I know I have no right to ask that of you, since I did it without your consent or boundaries. I have never lost control and that is no excuse, but I too have demons."

" I don't care, just help me get out of my damn past."

"Clarice, there is something I'd like to try with you. Would you trust me?"

"What is it?" 

"A bit of a controversial technique, have you heard of Triazolam?"

"Truth serum?"

"To be crude, yes... if we begin, it might help you to relax enough to talk with me uninhibited."

"When can we start?"

"Tomorrow after you've rested. I want to clean that wound and then it is off to sleep with you. I'll bring up something for you to eat later."

"It might be adrenaline talking, or shock... but I think I need this."

"You have the right to change your mind at any time."

"I forgive you Dr. Lecter," she winced as she touched the wound, "Leave the bite alone, I don't want to be touched right now but I do want to work with you, in all aspects."

"Thank you Clarice... and call me Hannibal. I think we've gotten past the use of titles," with that he left and shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Letting go of the reigns you keep so tight around your darkest dreams and desires is one of the most satisfying and releasing things that you will ever do. Just to make things clear though, Submission is not wrong. This is not about being so overpowered that the submissive’s freedom is taken. The person in the role of a submissive has a choice of where to go with their Submission and what to do. In all actuality the submissive is in certain aspects the one in control.   
> He or She can drop the cloth at anytime or say “Not in a thousand years” and the game is ended.   
> How will Starling play the game?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we see the beginnings of how Young Hannibal escalated his killings from when he was a teenager, the finess of his kills growing with a fluidity beyond those of his younger years. 
> 
> The death of Benjamin Raspail is the story that began his meeting with Will Graham and led to the fateful crossing with dear Clarice.

A Simple Touch with Fatal Attraction 

Chapter 4: Angels falling at my feet 

(Note: Raspail’s death, nor Klaus’ coincide with SoTL book or movie interpretation) 

Clarice found herself to be a pitiful sight as she looked into the mirror, dried blood crusted over her shoulder and on her lips. Why the fuck did she let him take her over like that? _“Because you wanted him to…”_

Suddenly she felt the need to retch, and as she dropped to the floor over the toilet she felt his hands pull her hair back from her face. Here she was naked as the day she was born with blood on her from a wound caused by the only man who had ever taught her to look beyond herself; meanwhile here he was holding her hair and she wasn’t afraid… yet she was sickened.  
“Why?” She asked herself. “Clarice you shouldn’t be up; despite our need to talk, I feel that you should be resting. Let me worry about tomorrow hmm?” He asked as he rubbed her neck. 

"I need to talk" she whispered, she felt unsure and yet anticipated the clarity he might bring after all these years of games.

"Very well, let us begin."

Producing a hypodermic from the pocket of his slacks, Hannibal calmly removed the needle cap and tested it, then removed his right hand and injected the medication directly into the left common carotid located on the right side of her neck just below the mandibular arch. It was a mild dose of Triazolam, just enough to relax her so that he could begin. Taking the cap from his mouth he covered the needle once more and returned it to his pocket. Lifting Clarice again, he paused to flush the toilet and to grab a washcloth, then carried her back once more to her bed. 

She would never cease to amaze him, always fighting what she wanted and then giving in, then repeating the process over from the start as if that could erase all that had happened. Walking over to the washbasin in the corner of the room, he poured water from the pitcher into the basin and wet the washcloth, returning to her side within moments. She was in a sedated state, with a heavy lidded stare and would remain that way until he prompted her with a question. 

**“Triazolam you see is a hypnotic drug that is also disguised as a sedative, it’s generic name is Halcion, fifteen cc’s in a dose is base line for sedation with questioning… do not exceed twenty-five cc’s, permanent cerebral damage may result, causing a vegetative to comatose state.”**

Hannibal recalled the information regarding the drug came from the book “Psychiatry and hypnotic drugs” The information sited under Hypnotics and Sedation, and was filed away according to its usefulness… and this drug was very useful. He smiled as he recalled Benjamin Raspail and his glassy eyes and how the man had begun to pitifully drool down the front of a rather fine sports jacket. He allowed himself the indulgence of slipping further within that corridor of his memory palace and delved with perfect clarity the conversation of that day. 

 

“Tell me Ben, I have yet to hear your wonderful tale of Klaus’ erotic tumble with you this week.” The younger Hannibal said.  
“That fucking bastard? I killed ‘im Doc, found him fucking a woman and another guy at the same time. Killed ‘im good too after I got him one last time. You know Doc…mmm… I don’t think anyone else had a finer ass than he did; ‘cept maybe you of course… hehe but don’t mind it Doc… I know you don’t go my way." Raspail said with spittle spraying over the fine Cuban that he had in his mouth. 

“Oh but I do mind Ben, you see you are not only a disgusting voyeuristic man but you are also the most horrible Flautist I have ever had the displeasure of hearing. Really who taught you how to play? Everyone knows that Promenade by Mussorgsky is light and airy, not dry and staccato! Perhaps you should hear how a real Flautist does it justice but sadly I don’t believe you’ll ever have the pleasure of that.” Younger Hannibal said as he suddenly injected the Triazolam into the same spot in Raspail’s neck that he would to Clarice some thirty years later. 

The hypnotic sedative took affect about five minutes after it’s intra-aortic introduction and Hannibal watched as the Cuban fell to the floor followed by the drool down the front of Raspail’s sports jacket, he also noted the fixed glassy stare and the shallow breathing that signaled a sedative state. "Walk me through the process Benjamin… what did you do to Klaus?” Younger Hannibal asked. 

“I threw him in the Packard.” Raspail responded. “No Ben… how did you kill him?” Younger Hannibal growled. “I strangled him Doc… with my own hands.” Raspail held up his hands for proof as though a child would show his mother that he had washed for dinner. Younger Hannibal nodded and Raspail clapped his hands with glee at his Psychiatrist’s approval. The younger Hannibal stared at Raspail’s weak and bony hands with disgust, there was no way that he could have done that without some mechanical help. 

_"It was probably Erotic Asphyxiation.”_ Younger Hannibal thought _“Pull tight enough on the noose and cut off the safety chord, death is unavoidable…but I wonder if he was saved the pleasure of watching as his lover left him hanging there to die.”_ With that thought Younger Hannibal brought himself back to the conversation at hand and brought his Stiletto down from its forearm band, it was almost time for the final bow of Benjamin Raspail. 

 

“Is the Packard still at your residence?” Younger Hannibal asked. “Yeah…what do you want with it…you’re gonna call the cops aren’t you?” Raspail asked in a timid voice. “No…no…no… you see I’m afraid that would be too lenient for a man like you.” “Now tell me… who else helped you?” Younger Hannibal asked. “Nobody…I did it myself!” Raspail yelled. 

“Come now Ben, you couldn’t have killed him and dragged his body to the Packard, your hands are too weak… you remember what your father said don’t you Ben? He called you a stupid Fucking Faggot that would never do anything without a dick up his ass and one in his mouth as you so eloquently put it. I’m starting to think Daddy was right…”

“Now tell me who helped you!” Hannibal yelled. “Jame Gumb! He’s the one I’ve been seeing, you know the guy who came in here with me? Klaus was getting boring, and Jame wanted me for me, but then…” Raspail said with tears coming down his face. 

 

“Then good old Jamie went and left you didn’t he? He helped you kill a man, drag his body to a car that you never use anymore and then up and left… doesn’t sound like he wanted you for anything more than a good old fuck toy. Now be a good boy and tell me where Jame is.” Younger Hannibal looked at Raspail growing tired of the tedious game. “Philadelphia, he wrote me three days ago.” “Thank you Ben.” Younger Hannibal said as he advanced toward him with the Stiletto now in plain view. Raspail tried to scream for help but was silenced quickly with a pierce to his larynx.  
“Pity… it seems I gave him too little.” Raspail meanwhile was passed out from the sight of blood pouring from the small wound and was ignorantly the one to stain the Doctor’s fine seventeenth century Oriental rug. 

Quickly the younger Hannibal grabbed his medical kit from beneath his desk and brought out a gauze four by four and medical tape, perhaps something could be done to save the rug… that is if no more blood soaked into the fine fibers. Staunching the flow with the gauze, the younger Hannibal then taped it neatly and lifted Raspail into a standing position, throwing the man’s right arm over his shoulder and tried not to gag as he was met with the obvious stench of body odor covered badly by a cheap cologne. The sooner Benjamin Raspail was dead, the better off the world would be. Carefully he stepped around the small pool of blood, vowing that he would call the police saying that Benjamin Raspail had attempted suicide, ran from his appointment and wasn’t seen since. Or perhaps that wasn’t the most logical of stories; he could simply say that Benjamin failed to come to his appointments for the past three weeks. The stain could be taken care of in the morning. 

Stepping out of his office the Younger Hannibal was pleased to see that his secretary had gone home already, if he locked the front entrance now he could take the stairwell to the parkade and avoid being seen. Doing so the Younger Hannibal smiled and whistled the Goldberg Variations: Aria Da Capo, still carrying the passed out Raspail’s weight upon his right shoulder.  
Once Raspail was safely in the trunk of the Mercedes, the Younger Hannibal took Raspail back to his residence and began to contemplate exactly what to do with the now “late” flautist Benjamin Raspail…. Sweet breads sounded lovely, perhaps the ragout, and oysters…. Ah yes oysters. Batard Montrachet would be lovely in combination. As for what to do with the remains… there was an abandoned church not to far from here, after all Raspail was a “good” little Catholic. 

The Packard on the other hand… that would be difficult… or would it? Younger Hannibal’s mind began working at lightning speed, but little did he count on one thing… A friend. A few weeks later there was a knock on the door to his office, when he opened it he was met with a bright-eyed young fellow. “Hello Dr. Lecter… my name’s Will Graham I’m a Special Agent with the FBI… I’d like to talk to you about a patient of yours… uh Mr. Benjamin Raspail.” Graham held out his hand smiling, as Younger Hannibal took it and thought, “You are interesting Will Graham, but are you smart enough to know what you’re getting into?” 

 

Hannibal snapped out of his recall and shook his head, looking down at Clarice.  
“No further, no, no further… it doesn’t do well to relive those days, does it Clarice?” He asked. “Wha’ Doctor?” She asked groggily. “Nothing my darling.” He said. “Just relax and let me do the asking alright?” She nodded slowly beneath his left hand, which held the damp cloth in place. “Clarice… how did you feel about me last year, the night I kissed you? Answer truthfully now.” He said. “ I felt chills… but not bad, they confuse me.” She responded. “Why did you cuff me?” Hannibal looked into her hazy eyes eager to know. “Because I couldn’t let you get away.” She said. “Then why didn’t you tell me to stop? You could have kept me if you had just asked me to stop.” He said removing his hand from the cloth and caressing her cheek. “But then it wouldn’t hurt.” She said.  
“Is that what you want Clarice? Do you want pain?” He asked with his eyes wide.  
“Yes… and I don’t know…. why…” With that said her eyes closed and she fell into a dreamless sleep. Hannibal sat there and mused with his chin in his palm, looking like the statue of the Thinking man. It would take time to ease her into the role of the submissive that she was deep within, but when all was done it would be like angels falling at his feet. 

 

Angels falling at my feet 

Angels falling at my feet  
Tied with blood red ribbons on silken sheets  
Studded collars about their necks  
Painted wings and halo rings  
Pretty voices that soon will sing  
Halo rings thrown askew, painted wings now lie strewn  
As their bodies writhe beneath  
Angels falling at my feet, singing out in ecstasy 

-A.L.White copyright 2005 October 26th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Clarice has just admitted what she wants, but will she remember? The mind is a dangerous thing to play around with, but Starling has the best finding out all her deepest secrets and desires. Will she finally let go? Will she let Hannibal Lecter inside her heart as well as her mind? 
> 
> Find out in the next chapter of A Simple Touch with Fatal Attraction.


End file.
